Scars
by Center of the Galaxy
Summary: "There's always a choice; there's always a call to make. Dean chose to let Sam be possessed. Sam chose to let Dean walk away." *post 9x10, one-shot*


_**Author's Note: **__Not sure where this came from. I've been taking a break from the current season because I haven't found it too enjoyable. This is my attempt to get back into the show and my fan fiction. Set post 9x10. I hope you enjoy it though!_

* * *

"_I can't change who I am._

_Not this time, I won't lie to keep you near me."_

—_Evanescence, "Lacrymosa"_

* * *

For the first time in over a year, Sam's alone with nothing but his thoughts to keep him company. In the stillness of the bunker—it's so quiet here, enough to almost be disconcerting—the youngest Winchester finally allows himself to breathe. He's been a puppet for an angel for the past few months and fuck, that stings more than any other stupid thing Dean's done to save him. It might even rival his demon deal in the idiocy department and as much as Sam would like to say he wouldn't make the same choice if he were in his brother's shoes at the time, he couldn't. He'd lost Dean before and that pain? It was something that had almost killed him. If his brother were dying before him, then who's to say what he would or wouldn't do in order to save him?

But the fact that Dean had let it go on so long without so much as a word? That was unforgivable. And yeah, maybe the youngest Winchester was straddling the line between some screwed up double standard, but he didn't care. Dean lied to him—again; when had lying ever worked for them?—and that lie had led to Kevin's death.

Sam had killed Kevin.

Kevin Tran—AP student, smartest kid in the state probably, who never wanted any part of this life—was dead because of him. He had been in the wrong place at the wrong time and now, his blood was on Sam's hands. Yeah, Dean said that the prophet's death was solely on him, but the youngest Winchester disagreed. It wasn't Dean's hands that had burned Kevin's eye sockets. And yeah, Sam hadn't been aware of what was happening when Kevin died, but that didn't make him blameless and it most certainly didn't take away the guilt.

"Damn." He swore softly under his breath as he ran a hand through his hair.

So, here he was, finally alone with his thoughts in this empty bunker. Cas had stepped out to go shopping for groceries, something he had enjoyed doing as a human. On the way out, the angel had shot him a worried glance, but Sam simply waved him off and told him to go.

He was fine being alone.

Dean was gone too, out there doing who knew what. Hunting down something to take his rage out on, of that Sam was sure. He'd be lying if he didn't admit that he missed his brother. But, this time, the anger was stronger than the love he held for his brother.

_Go. I'm not going to stop you._

He had meant that—this time, he could see no way for reconciliation, not now, not when he was still processing everything that had happened because of his being possessed. Had he even been himself for any of that time? All of his choices—had Gadreel allowed him to make them or had he influenced them somehow? Sam could never be sure and that tore him up inside. Ever since Lucifer, he swore that he would never allow something else to take control again. Dean knew that and still, he allowed this rogue angel, which he knew nothing about, to occupy his baby brother's body. On what screwed up planet was that okay?

_I didn't have a choice._

There's always a choice; there's always a call to make. Dean chose to let Sam be possessed. Sam chose to let Dean walk away. One thing Winchesters stuck by was their choices. Sam knew that unless he picked up the phone, Dean wouldn't call. Just like Dean knew that his little brother would not call until he gotten his head on straight. This was who they were and nothing would change that.

They say time heals all worlds. Sam thinks that's a load of crap. Jessica's death still stings and every once in awhile, he'll still see her burning on the ceiling. The guilt over the apocalypse has never faded completely. Time dulls the pain, that's true, but it can never erase the deep wounds. If anything, time helps the scars fade.

Sam's got so many scars. Now, Kevin's death will be added to his collection of them.

_I'm poison, Sam. _

Maybe that was the Winchester curse. How many scars could you accumulate before you finally gave up on trying to heal? How many battles could you lose before you threw in the towel? After all this time, what had they truly accomplished? Why were they still fighting?

_But don't go thinking that's the problem, cause it's not. _

_What's that supposed to mean?_

He'd wanted to tell Dean the truth—he wasn't the poison, but this life was—yet, what was the point? His older brother was already so far gone in his shame spiral that words wouldn't have solved anything and at the time, Sam wasn't in the mood to offer a lifeline. So, they had just gazed at each other, each trying to figure out what the hell had gone wrong between them. They were so close last year during the Trials and now . . . now it had come to this.

_Just go._

And Dean had.

He'd gotten into the Impala and driven away without even glancing back. It reminded the youngest Winchester of John to be honest, and of the blind rage that used to propel their battered father forward. Three days had passed and Dean hadn't even sent a text. To be honest, Sam didn't feel inclined to send one either.

An impasse, then.

The door opened and the familiar rhythm of Castiel's footsteps echoed down the hall as well as the ruffling of bags from the grocery store. He was grateful the angel was sticking around; he could use the company. Not to mention that he was still feeling a bit off after his possession. So far, Castiel hadn't broached the subject of Dean, but Sam could see that he was thinking of a way to do that soon.

Soon, he would call Dean.

As he placed his cellphone on the table and rose from the chair, he sighed.

He would call as soon as he could figure how to make the bleeding stop; how to get the scar to appear.

But deep down, he had a feeling that this wound was much worse than any he had faced before.

* * *

In a nondescript motel room several states away, Dean stared at his brother's name, his finger hovering above the call button.

He doesn't call though; simply tosses his phone on the bed and storms out.

The wounds keep hemorrhaging; the scars grow larger.

And the silence continues on.

* * *

_**Author's Note: **__I hope season nine picks up soon. I'm so tired of the boys fighting! If you have a moment, please review. Thanks! _


End file.
